


you can't always get what you want

by wolfchester



Series: another universe [5]
Category: The Society (TV 2019)
Genre: CAN WE NETFLIX, F/M, Non-Explicit Sex, allie and harry finally get it awwwwnnnnn, and also the title is fckin relevant bc we really CAN'T ALWAYS GET WHAT WE WANT, anywayyyy have some hallie cuteness in these trying times, inspired by the song by rolling stones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26033671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfchester/pseuds/wolfchester
Summary: it's better the second time around.
Relationships: Harry Bingham/Allie Pressman
Series: another universe [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1378072
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59





	you can't always get what you want

**Author's Note:**

> well, 2020, you fucked another good thing up..........rest in peace the society season 2. gone but never forgotten....
> 
> this was meant to come after 'a million little battles' in my another universe series but with the bad news today i thought us hallie hoes might need a lil pick me up
> 
> title from: 'you can't always get what you want' by the rolling stones
> 
> (also don’t tell me these preppy lil kids don’t listen to brockhampton and tame impala c’mon - and of course it’s gordie who manages to get his hands on a box set of saturation trilogy vinyls through the back channels of reddit...)

One winter morning, Harry finds his dad’s old record stash down in the basement of his house. 

He hadn’t exactly gone searching for the collection. He was downstairs back at his parents’ house looking for spare batteries, because some idiot living at Allie’s had taken the ones that usually makes its home in a kitchen cupboard and he was hoping to watch a movie today, but couldn’t if the TV remote was dead. (Yeah, he lives there now. Makes sense, doesn’t it?) And it’s not like he can just go to the hardware store and take some off the shelves. Allie’s stupid rules prevent that, of course. Which is kind of fair - but also, fuck that. They’re basically living in a dystopian, post-apocalyptic teen novel. What do all these rules even matter for?

(Look, he likes Allie - a lot. But that doesn’t mean he has to agree with her wacky socialist ideals.)

Harry is grumpy and flustered in that way you only get when you just  _ can’t find that one thing _ and it feels like your head is going to explode. He’s not careful as he bustles around the basement, pushing miscellaneous objects around, kicking things out of the way, trying to find those elusive extra batteries.

He yelps out a curse as his big toe smashes into what is decidedly  _ not  _ a pile of blankets, but a stack of boxes. 

The two cardboard boxes are labelled “Henry’s”. Harry’s eyes widen. This belongs to his dad. (Belonged.)

He traces the line of sellotape across the top of one of the boxes and carefully pulls it open. Inside, he discovers at least a hundred vinyls, all in various states of wear. He didn’t even know his dad collected music like this, or at least not to this extent.

Finding out something new about his father a year after he died feels bittersweet. Like saying hello to an old friend while knowing that once you part ways you may never see them again.

Hair sticks to his forehead, slick with the sweat he worked up while searching. Harry pushes his hair back and swallows the lump in his throat. And grins.

Because: new music!

Spotify and Apple Music are useless without internet, so the only music they have are old songs saved in iTunes playlists from 2011 and vinyls and cassette tapes from people’s personal collections.

Luckily, the teenagers of the town were pretty into collecting records from Urban Outfitters, so there’s still  _ some  _ modern music available. Helena has Tame Impala’s newest album on vinyl, for instance. Bean has a whole ton of 90s r’n’b plus Rihanna’s ‘Anti’. And Gordie, of all people, has all three ‘Saturation’ albums by Brockhampton. (These are a particular hot commodity that he loans out by payment of Snickers bars.)

Despite these few treasures, though, most of the music in New Ham is limited to the decades of the 60s, 70s and 80s. Which, admittedly, is not necessarily a bad thing.

And Harry’s dad’s collection is pretty fucking sweet.

His fingers flit through the stacks of vinyls, eyes skimming the names of bands and album titles. Cream. Led Zeppelin. The Police. Prince. Jimi Hendrix. Fleetwood Mac. Frank Sinatra. Piles and piles of them under the cover of dusty old blankets that look like they were thrown hastily over the top. Someone’s attempt to hide some memories. (Probably his mom, he thinks, remembering back to that unfortunate discovery of condoms in the bathroom cabinet.) 

He’s not sure what he’s looking for, exactly. Then a flash of colour catches his eye and his fingers still on one particular LP.

Ah,  _ this  _ is the one. ‘Let It Bleed’ by the Rolling Stones. This is the one record that Harry can remember his dad owning and playing often, even if he recognises it now only from the silly birthday cake on the cover. 

Holding the album in his hands feels somehow sacred. A connection to his father. Something tangible. Something real. Barely anything feels real anymore. Not in this place.  _ New Ham _ . What a fucking joke. 

He spends the next twenty minutes lugging his dad’s old record player, found in the other box, upstairs and figuring out how to make it work. 

Finally, the player starts up. He carefully places the tonearm on the first black groove.

The needle drops onto the vinyl and the opening riff of ‘Gimme Shelter’ fills the dining room. 

Harry’s body immediately relaxes. He closes his eyes and breathes a deep sigh. Time and reality become fluid, moving backwards. The air is thick with memories.

Suddenly, he’s fourteen years old again, dancing with his dad in the kitchen to this very song. His mom and sister Sara are in the living room watching some soapy show on the CW, yelling at the two boys to turn the music down. If he scrunches his eyes tight enough he can see his dad’s face. The laugh lines, the open mouth singing, the hair much like his own only thinner.

This is the time before Dad gets sick. When having his father home is a treat squeezed in the middle of a fifty hour week at the office. Harry might get an hour before bedtime when Dad is around to goof off, tell him about his school day, answer awkward questions about Kelly. And dance around to The Stones while doing the dishes.

For the next half hour, Harry Bingham dances in sweatpants and socked feet, pretending like there’s no New Ham and no dead Dad and Mom and Sara are just around the corner behind the stairs. He cries a little. Which is funny, because the music’s not crying music - it’s grooving music, toe-tapping music - but something about the familiarity of it stirs emotions deep in his chest that he didn’t even know he had anymore.

He dances and sings and dances and sings until his voice is hoarse. Then the doorbell rings.

* * *

When Allie wakes up that morning to go get ready for the fortnightly town meeting, Harry’s nowhere to be seen. His bed in the study is empty, sheets nicely tucked in. No one in the house had seen him leave. 

Of course, the first thought in Allie’s mind is that he’s gone back to either his house or Campbell’s to collect some drugs or some other shit that he forgot about. She really fucking hopes he’s not, but it’s a valid thought. 

_ I thought we were past this, _ Allie thinks as she trudges angrily along the path towards the Bingham house, wrapped up warm in a coat and scarf. She knows that addiction and depression aren’t things you can get over just like that. But she also knows that he’s been trying. Really, truly trying.

She refuses to believe that Harry’s holed up in his house high out of his mind - just like Will implied when they noticed Harry was missing. She refuses to believe that he’s fallen off the wagon again, because he promised. He  _ promised. _

And there’s more. There’s an emotional element to this now, isn’t there? She kissed him a week ago. He kissed her back. They may have tried to pretend that hadn’t happened, but it did. And now, despite everything, she cares about him in the most awful way.

Allie Pressman has a lot of faith in Harry Bingham. Far more, some would say, than he deserves. 

It begins to snow. Beautiful, freezing flakes of white tumbling down from this alternate universe’s heavens. They fall on her hair and catch in her eyelashes and she’s never been more pissed off. The first snowfall of the season and she’s spending it marching with rage toward Harry Bingham’s house instead of enjoying the wonder of nature. And yeah, that sounds cheesy, but it’s how she feels, alright? There’s not a lot of space in this new world to appreciate things. Fuck Harry for that.

Preparing for the worst, she’s confused when she approaches his front door and hears the sound of singing coming from inside the house. She knocks. No one answers. The singing continues. 

“Harry?” she calls. Knocks again. Still no answer. 

Allie sighs and checks the door handle. Unlocked. She pushes the door open. 

The music gets louder and louder the further she walks into the house. It seems to be coming from the kitchen at the back of it. Now she can clearly hear someone singing, and it sounds like Harry. She rounds the corner into the kitchen and oh, there he is, standing on top of a chair, singing into a pretend microphone to ‘Monkey Man’, a song she only knows because this was her dad’s favourite Stones album.

“ _ I am just a monkey man and I’m glad you are a monkey! Woman! Too!” _ he sings — or rather, screams — facing away from her, not realising she’s stumbled into his private concert. 

“Harry!” she shouts again. He freezes and spins around. His eyes lock with hers. He looks like a rabbit caught in the beam of a flashlight. 

“Allie! Fuck!” he exclaims and jumps down from his ‘stage’. Face heating up with embarrassment, he rushes over to the record player to lift the needle and pause the music. “What are you doing here?” he asks as casually as can be, folding his arms in front of his chest and leaning against the cabinet where the record player sits. 

She mirrors his stance, resting her back against the cool marble of the kitchen counter. “I could ask you the same thing,” she replies, cocking her head and biting back a smile. “You weren’t in the house this morning. I thought you’d come back here to get— or to Campbell’s to do—“ she sighs. It seems silly to admit now that she’s found what he’s really doing — impersonating Mick Jagger and dancing on tables. 

Harry seems to understand what she means. “No, Allie, I— I promised you I wouldn’t. You gotta trust me.” His words sound so sincere, especially when he gives her that sly half-smile and mumbles in that low voice of his. 

“How do I know I can trust you to stay clean?” she asks, raising her eyebrows at him.

“How do I know I can trust you to not go and tell everyone what you just saw?” Harry smirks.

“What? That you were standing on the kitchen table singing terribly to a Stones album?” she taunts, the hint of a smile starting to creep across her face. 

“Ha! Terribly?” he chuckles, pushing himself away from the cabinet and taking a few steps towards her. “I think I sang pretty well.”

Are they flirting now? It feels like flirting. “Yeah, it’s a no from me,” she jokes. She could stop right now. He’s stepping closer to her, a cheeky glint in his eyes. She should stop right now. She should leave.

She doesn’t leave, but she  _ does  _ step around him and move towards the now-silent record player. Feeling Harry’s eyes on her back, she lifts the needle and drops it at the beginning of the last song on the album — her dad’s favourite. The opening notes from the choir on ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’ spill out from the speakers, filling the space with achingly familiar noise. She sucks in a deep breath before facing Harry again. 

Harry, with those beautiful eyes, that broken smile, those soft dark curls. He’s grinning at her, elbows on the counter, hands clasped together. She glances down at his mouth and thinks about a week ago when she kissed him, when it almost went somewhere (somewhere they’d been before), when he’d held her as she slept. She couldn’t be more relieved to have found him fucking  _ dancing _ rather than stuffing little baggies of white pills into his jacket pockets. 

Fuck, she likes him. She wants to flirt with him. She wants to kiss him. She wants to dance.

And so, without thinking too hard about it, Allie begins to move — first spinning in a circle, then shaking her hips, grooving her body in all manner of ways, looking like an idiot but not fucking caring. 

“So you’re dancing now?” Harry laughs, watching her take off her shoes and skate around the dining room in stockinged feet. “I thought I was stupid for dancing.”

“I never said you were stupid,” Allie replies, closing her eyes and shimmying her hips to the music. “Just that you were a bad singer.”

“Fuckin’ asshole,” he exclaims, shaking his head. Fuck, he likes her. Wants to flirt with her. Wants to kiss her. Wants to dance with her. He jumps up on the kitchen counter as the chorus comes in, pretends like he’s holding a microphone, and belts out the lyrics,  _ “You can’t always get what you want! But if you try sometimes...you’ll find...you get what you need!” _

His eyes are closed but he hears her laughing and fuck, isn’t that a glorious sound. It makes him want to laugh, too. He feels like a burden’s been lifted off his back. Like he’s finally free. Because somebody loves him. 

And maybe it’s not in that way. Maybe she just loves him as a friend, or a brother, or whatever. It doesn’t matter. He feels that love, takes it in, lets it flow over his skin and into his mind, lets it make him feel human again. 

The song builds and builds and builds, and Allie shouts along with Mick Jagger, dancing around the room. Harry leaps down from the counter to join her and the two of them spin around the dining table, air drumming and air guitaring. Allie’s not thinking about the meeting she’s supposed to be at, not about her responsibilities or at how this would look or what will happen tomorrow. It’s all right here, right now, Harry and the Rolling Stones and a sweet moment of freedom.

It’s her turn to climb up onto the table and stomp out the chorus. Harry pauses and looks up at her, at this magnificent young woman. Denim skirt and stockings, warm old sweatshirt, hair crazy, singing offkey and loud for all the town to hear. 

When was the moment he knew he loved her? Long before this one, that’s for sure.

Maybe it was when she picked him up after his overdose, slept with him at the hospital, took him into her house to look after him. Maybe it was when she didn’t kick him out after she found he was still using. Maybe it was sometime during their many late night movies and naps on the couch. Maybe it was as far back as the first time they kissed, before Cassandra died and this was all just a game they were going to be saved from at any second. 

He’s never been able to articulate it properly, but he loves her. Passionate, strong, self-sacrificial Allie. Patient, clever, caring Allie.

She’s the whole fucking package. And he’ll probably never deserve her, but who cares? Does that even matter? He’ll give her everything he has. 

The song is almost at an end. She looks down at him, eyes half-shut with a smile on her face so bright it rivals the sun. It’s good to see her happy. She has had so much unwanted responsibility attached to her since their world turned upside down. He’s been one of those responsibilities, and while he hates himself for it, he’s so glad she decided to take care of him.

Allie clambers down from the table, almost tripping on a chair in the process, drunk on happiness and good music. She lands half a foot away from him, so close he could just lean forward and kiss her if she wanted him to. 

She reads his mind. 

“Kiss me.”

“What?” His mouth is dry. 

“Kiss me,” she repeats, leaning in close. The voices of the choir fade out. The magic of the song is dying. The utterly electric atmosphere between the two of them isn’t.

“Okay,” he mutters, like a fucking idiot, and closes the gap.

Her mouth opens for him more easily than it had last week, when she’d been upset and nervous and half-asleep. This time, they’re both wide awake. She tastes good and fresh, like toothpaste and chewing gum. Her skin is warm and flushed and a little sweaty, but that’s okay because he is too. 

He loves kissing her. Has always loved that. The way her arms come up to sling around his neck and pull him close. How she tilts her head just so and opens so he can slide his tongue into her mouth and deepen the kiss. How she pushes herself against him, his hands tight on her waist, reaching for him even as they’re as close as can be. 

He imagined that the next time he’d kiss her, it would happen gentle and slow. This is not like that at all. This is him completely surrendering to her touch, her completely losing herself in the taste of him. 

Harry dips his fingers below the fabric of her sweatshirt, sighing into her mouth at the feeling of skin on bare skin. It’s at this moment she pulls away. 

“What’s up?” he asks before she says a word, embarrassing himself at how desperate he sounds.

Her hair is wild and tangled and her lips are soft and red. “No one’s going to interrupt us here, right?” she says, voice a hurried whisper, and fuck it if that doesn’t turn him on. He thought she was going to run away, but she’s not. She wants to stay. She wants  _ him _ .

“Nope,” he replies, shuffling forwards to wrap his arms around her middle and pull her towards him once again. “When I moved to yours, I kicked everyone else out.” He dips down to press a kiss to her cheek and whisper, “Just you and me, Pressman.”

There’s something about him calling her by just her last name that makes Allie want to kiss him even harder. So she does. Because she fucking likes him, and she likes him touching her and making her feel good, and she likes untucking his button-down and sliding her palms underneath his shirt, feeling the hard line of his hips and the softness of his skin. She likes it all, and she doesn’t want it to stop.

So when Harry lifts his hands even further up her shirt and his fingers scrape the underwire of her bra, Allie doesn’t think twice. She pulls away for a moment and shrugs her arms out of her sleeves then tugs both her shirt and her sweater over her head. And then she’s standing in front of Harry, half-naked but for her skirt and her bra (a black everyday one, a little worn out but still cute, okay?) and he’s giving her that hungry, all-consuming look that tells her clear as day he wants her. 

Harry whispers a curse as he takes in the sight of her bare body, then steps forward to press a kiss to her neck. “You’re so— so fucking hot—“ 

“Shut up,” Allie admonishes, only half meaning it. She grabs his hands and moves them from where they’re sat on her hips to cover her breasts instead. He sucks in a short breath, and she watches his pupils dilate and his eyelids flutter. She feels strangely dangerous.

Something lusciously dark rises from her belly, up through her throat, into her mouth. She lurches forward to kiss him, open-mouthed, dirty. He hums into her mouth, hands palming her chest, kissing her like his life depends on it. She responds by leaning back against the counter and hoisting herself up onto it. Instinctively, Harry moves forward to hike up her denim skirt around her waist and slots his body neatly between her legs. Heat rushes to her inner thighs. She feels like she can hardly breathe. He moves his hands under her skirt and up the outside of her hips to tug at the waistband of her stockings. 

“Can I take these off?” he murmurs.

_ Yes, before I chicken out. Before I think too hard about what we’re doing and what this means. _ “Yeah, yeah. Go ahead,” she replies, barely able to get the words out. 

Harry pulls the tights down delightfully slow, his fingers grazing her skin. He watches as she shivers under his touch, his eyes blackening with desire. She’s never looked so beautiful. Golden hair wild, flyaways catching in the light, bruised pink lips parted open. Her blue, blue eyes watching him as he touches her. He feels powerful and weak for her all at once.

She helps him by kicking off the stockings when they reach her ankles. Then his hands go back up, up, up until his fingers scrape the lace edge of her panties. He hooks them under the elastic and gives them a teasing tug, asking for permission. With an open-mouthed kiss, she gives it, and her underwear joins her stockings on the tiled kitchen floor. 

The countertop is cold under her thighs and as Harry pulls her ever closer to him she realises that she’s almost completely naked while he’s still fully clothed. And that will not do. 

Her fingers go to deftly undo the buttons on his shirt, swift and nimble like she’s done this a thousand times before (she hasn’t). And then his shirt is falling away, and her hands are everywhere, feeling the hint of muscle underneath his skin, the smooth planes of his chest, twisting her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. 

And his hands are everywhere, too. Gripping her waist then running down to the tops of her thighs where his palms fall heavy, and then his thumb is brushing up against her most intimate parts and she’s about to open up for him completely when a rush of cold air hits her skin and jolts her awake.

“Are we doing this here?” she asks, breath a whoosh of air. If they start this here they’re not going to stop.

Harry leans in to kiss her jaw. “We can? If you want?”

She briefly considers staying in the kitchen, keeping it dirty and quick and hot. But then her fingers find themselves gently scratching the back of his neck as he kisses her and she thinks that maybe she really wants this to be good. To be slow and intentional and good. 

“No,” she replies, leaning back from his mouth and smiling. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“As you wish, Pressman,” he grins, then steps back and helps her off the counter. She gets a good proper look at him for the first time since the song ended and they started...well, making out. He’s so handsome — but she knew that already. What she didn’t know — what she didn’t see last time they did this — is how beautiful he looks after he’s been kissing her. His dark hair is all mussed, his cheeks are flush with colour, and his lips are bitten red. And there’s something in his eyes, something bright and dancing, that makes her think  _ shit, this could be it. _

Harry grabs her hand and pulls her up the stairs to his bedroom. They’re running along the hallway, eager to get to the bed, and they must look so stupid. She feels like a kid doing something she’s not supposed to, and the thought makes her laugh. 

“What’s so funny?” Harry chuckles. She falls back onto the bed with a bounce. His room is so much cleaner than the last time she was here. He had moved a bunch of his stuff into Allie’s study the other month, including the covers of his bed, so it’s quite bare. She’s just lying on a sheet with no pillows or blankets. She doesn’t care at all. 

“Nothing,” she smiles and reaches for him. But it’s not nothing. It feels almost comedic. A  _ how did I get here?  _ moment.  _ Who knew!  _ she wants to shout. 

Harry’s lips find hers again, and all that humour melts away. 

They kiss for a long time. Passionate yet languid and slow. He rests on top of her between her knees, his body weight pinning her to the bed. He kisses her jaw, her neck, her chest, the ticklish spot on her hip, all the while whispering  _ you’re beautiful, fuck, you’re so beautiful _ , worshipping her like she’s some kind of goddess.

And worship her he does. Before he’s even taken his belt off, he’s made her feel so good she’s not sure how she’s still on this planet. As she lies on the bed and waits for Harry to finish cleaning himself up in the bathroom, she stares up at the ceiling and feels like laughing. Where had this all been when they were together at the party? How had she ever thought Harry Bingham was a bad lay? 

He returns to the room and flops down beside her, face red from splashing it with cold water. He opens his mouth to speak - probably to say something stupid and cheeky - but before he can, she surges up to kiss him. She’s not done.

Allie makes quick work of his belt, his pants, his boxers, and he does the same to her, finally unclasping her bra and wiggling off her skirt. And then he’s on top of her again, and pushing up into her, and it’s not like last time at all.

This time, neither of them are drunk. They’re both wide awake - and like it or not, that  _ means _ something. 

Harry pauses before he moves, searching her face for some kind of sign that she doesn’t want to do this. That he’s made a mistake. Taken this too far, too fast. But he finds none of that in her eyes. She’s staring up at him, mouth half-open, raising an eyebrow as if to say,  _ well? _

“Fuck, Allie,” he mumbles, carding a hand through her hair and using the other to support his weight. “I--” If this was another time, another place, another universe, he may have said  _ I love you _ . “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says instead, and is rewarded with an Allie Pressman smile and a small hand on the back of his neck pulling him down for another kiss.

Yes, it’s different from the time at the party. This time, it’s good. So very fucking good. 

* * *

“I was a virgin before that party, you know,” Allie says, looking down at Harry with a twinkle in her eye. They’ve showered and found a blanket somewhere in the house and are now cuddled up on Harry’s bed. His head is in the crook of her arm, stubbly cheek rough against the skin of her chest, her fingers gently stroking his hair.

She sees a smile twitching at his lips. “You’re telling me I took your virginity?” he replies, all stupid boy bravado.

“You didn’t  _ take _ it - I hate that phrasing.” She leans her head back and stares up at the ceiling. Harry shuffles up to meet her there. “I didn’t  _ lose _ it. It was mine to give away, and so I did.”

“Right,” he chuckles, turning his face towards hers to flash her another smile. “Well, that’s pretty fucking romantic, isn’t it? You  _ like _ me!” he teases, reaching across to tickle her stomach. 

She yelps and slaps him on the shoulder. “Shut up!”

He grins, wide and toothy. “You’re not denying it, though. You like me,” he chuckles, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Yeah, well, I’m literally lying naked in your bed, so..” she sighs, pursing her lips to keep from smiling.

Harry’s face is half smooshed into the blanket so she can only see the left half of it. That left eye gives her a cheeky wink. “It’s alright, Pressman. Your secret’s safe with me.”

She rolls her eyes but tucks herself further under the blanket, taking Harry’s hand in hers and interlocking their fingers. After a moment of comfortable silence, she asks, “Do you remember what you said the first time you kissed me?”

He shakes his head no.

“You said, ‘I just never saw you before.’” 

“Huh.” He reaches over with his free hand to brush a piece of hair away from her forehead. His thumb gently rubs the skin across her eyebrow. “Well, I see you now.”

“You see me now,” she whispers. 

Everything has changed. And it hasn’t just changed now that they’re here, having slept together for a second time. Her world was altered when she kissed him for the first time at that party, and then again in a different way when she took on the responsibility of looking after him when no one else would. They’ve become friends. She cares about him deeply. And now, looking into his eyes while he soothes her by smoothing her hair in the way her mom used to do when she couldn’t sleep, she reflects on just  _ how much _ she cares.

Harry is evidently doing some of his own reflection. “I don’t want to sleep in the study anymore,” he whispers, surprising her.

“So move back here.”

“Only if you’ll come with me.”

She’s equally surprised at herself when the next words flow out of her mouth so fast she can’t stop it. “Okay. Fine. I’ll move in here with you.”

His hand stills in her hair. “You’re serious?”

“Why not?” And really, why the fuck not? They’re never going to go back to what they were before today. Before the past few weeks, really. And she doesn’t even want to. 

Allie finds that she wants Harry in a way she’s never wanted anyone else. It may have been the shared trauma of Cassandra’s death that had bonded them together in the first place, but it’s so much more than that now. She remembers Helena saying to her once that she loved Luke because when he looked at her, it felt like he was seeing not just the person she was, but the person she had the potential to be. When Harry looks at her, she feels truly seen for everything she is and everything she could be. He makes her want to be better — a better leader, friend, person. If she’s going to be happy in this world, it will be with this boy. She’s not letting go.

“Don’t you care what people will say?” Harry asks. “Will’s gonna probably rip my—“

“I don’t give a shit what Will or anyone thinks,” she interjects, and she means it. “I— We deserve this. Let’s just— let’s just fuckin’ do it.” She’s grinning now and so is Harry. Smiles full of possibilities. It feels good.

“Wow, okay, yeah,” he stutters, then tips forward to press a kiss to her lips. “Okay,” he breathes. He had no clue that ditching the meeting today and dancing to a Rolling Stones album at his parents house would end up with Allie in his bed this morning and every morning after this one. His face will split from smiling, he swears. 

This girl. This  _ girl. _ She saved him, then taught him how to get himself better. He owes her the world. He’ll give her the world, if she’ll let him. 

He takes another long look at her, brushes his thumb against the side of her mouth, and says for the twentieth time that day, “God, you’re so fucking beautiful.”  _ And I love you _ .  _ I fucking love you. _

Mick Jagger may really be right. You can’t always get what you want, but sometimes — and this is surely one of those rare, beautiful times — you get what you need.

**Author's Note:**

> fuck i'm literally SO SAD this show was cancelled....what a gem of a show....what a gem of a cast.......guess i'll be writing fan fic forever lols.
> 
> come follow me on tumblr @jjmaybank and share ur hallie headcanons w me


End file.
